


When the Spark Sang

by Languidly



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 06:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30135699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languidly/pseuds/Languidly
Summary: Weighed down by long years of duty, Optimus Prime is a shadow of his former self. On an impulsive escapade from the Primal Temple, he meets impetuous Hot Rod and, through him, the revolutionary Megatron.
Relationships: Hot Rod/Megatron (Transformers), Hot Rod/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic snuck up on me late last night and beat me with a stick until this first chapter was written. 
> 
> Apparently, work stress is really good for churning up creative butter.

“Well, your readings are all coming back normal,” Ratchet said briskly, tucking the scanner away into his subspace. “So there’s really no reason you should be feeling this listless, Optimus. How long has this been going on?”

Too long, Optimus wanted to say, except that it was an answer that would probably earn him nothing but a narrowed look of disapproval. “Just a while,” he answered instead, his hand coming up automatically to rub at his chest, where the weight of the Matrix had sat with increasing heaviness over the last few stellar cycles. “I’m fine, Ratchet. I really don’t know why Ironhide thought I’d need looking over. I feel just the same as I always do.”

Ratchet stared at him, measuring. “Is that the problem?”

It hit too close to home - Optimus thought he’d concealed the flinch, but the medic’s raised optic ridges conveyed that he’d noticed directly.

“Optimus,” his oldest friend sighed, taking the wide chair on the other side of the small table that stood between them. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again: the rigors of leadership can be thoroughly draining and, in the best of times, monotonous. It’s natural to…get tired of it. To want to put it down for a while, sometimes.”

He shuttered his optics. “It’s not possible,” he mumbled quietly. “Zeta would sooner cause trouble than help, and there haven’t been any other Primes around for a while, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Ratchet shot him a glare. “I’m not asking you to lean on that manipulative power-hungry wretch. But you need to learn how to relax. When was the last time you left the Temple?”

Oh. It had been eons. 

Optimus couldn’t recall the last time he had set foot outside. His every waking hour had been filled with the endless duties of his station for so long that at some point he’d given up the concept of personal time. He’d used to enjoy reading, or taking walks, before the walls of his office had closed in around him. As peace and prosperity had grown throughout Cybertron, the hotspots had bloomed, and the population - and its needs - had surged. It wasn’t all perfect, Optimus knew. But it was far, far more than they’d had compared to before. The toll of taking responsibility for every living spark had been frightening at first, and then, when that fear had slowly but surely eased…

All that remained had become a burden. 

Everything weighed him down now, made him feel weary beyond belief. 

“Alright, it’s late today, so I’d prescribe nothing but recharge and maybe, just maybe, one large cube of triple-refined engex. I know- I know- ” Ratchet waved a hand to forestall Optimus’ protest, “I know you don’t get overcharged. But at this point, it’d probably do you some good.” This last was muttered lowly.

“Thank you, Ratchet,” Optimus said, letting his hand drop from his chest. “For your care.”

Ratchet grumbled something rude and swung himself up off the chair. “For being one of the few who treat you as something other than a living statue of Primus? Don’t be ridiculous, Optimus.”

He felt a true smile come to his lips then, safely hidden behind the battlemask that he’d taken to wearing even in recharge. “I endeavor not to be.”

He walked Ratchet to the door, and then waited until the medic had disappeared past the perimeter that separated his personal quarters from the rest of the temple. The smile had faded before he’d even realized it, and the ache in his chest had returned full-force. Optimus turned to go back into his suite.

He paused. The stark glow of Luna-1 from above bathed his meager garden in light and shadow. It was late. Late enough for not many to be around, both within the Temple and outside it. 

The urge to get as far away from the confines of this place was sudden and staggering. Ratchet was right. He needed distance. Perspective. Just a moment to himself. 

The hidden pathways that he’d used a lifetime ago were still there, if a little overgrown with large crystal plants. With some hesitation, he slipped past the guard posted at the far side of the garden. Smokescreen was young, and had been born into this peace. Lulled by the tedium of nothing happening decacycle after decacycle, he was propped artfully in his chair, clearly in a light recharge. Ironhide would throw him onto the roof if he ever found out, Optimus thought with some amusement. But he planned to be back before Smokescreen or his head of security noticed anything amiss, so Smokescreen would hopefully be spared an untoward fate.

Optimus headed towards one of the smaller side entrances that he knew led to the supplies and pantry building for the temple - and beyond that, the outside. As expected, the entire area was deserted at this time. It was no trouble at all to make his way unseen to the towering, reinforced door that kept intruders or potential enemies out. It opened for him with a non-judgemental blink of green.

He stood there for a long moment, frozen in the open doorway. Optimus couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone anywhere without a guard; Ironhide was such a fixture at his back that it suddenly felt wrong, and strange, to be facing the vast expanse of the outside world alone.

That was silly. He was the Prime. This was his planet, his city, and out there were his people. 

Optimus squared his shoulders, and then hastened past the threshold before he could change his mind. He had absolutely nothing to be concerned about. A quick walk to clear his processor, to hopefully lighten his mood, and he would return. There were no laws prohibiting him from leaving his own temple. 

He strode past the Senate building, equally dark and empty, and then the warm yellow glow of the fancy lodgings where visiting ambassadors liked to stay. Past that was the looming police headquarters that Zeta occupied - if Optimus sped up slightly to get more quickly to the other side, at least no one was there to see.

Finally, he arrived at a large intersection. He veered off to the right, away from the stately residential blocks where many Senators lived. In the crisp cold air, he walked along the main street, turning without looking down pathways when they opened before him and marveling at the sudden space around him, the sheer distance between his feet and the sky overhead. It cleared his optics and the heaviness in his chest. He walked and walked with his faceplates tipped up, away from the brightly-lit areas to better see the stars, and had just decided that he would search for some constellations when the sound of engines on full throttle roared into his audials from his left.

The road was dark but for two sets of headlights speeding towards him, and Optimus was so surprised that he didn’t even think to move. The red car in front squealed sideways in a valiant drift that gave off the smell of burning rubber. It barely missed Optimus’ foot, but the second car, a chunkier green model, wasn’t so lucky. 

The corner of its front bumper caught Optimus full on the side of his leg; immediately, his Matrix-reinforced struts and armor plates locked up, all but cementing him to the ground in the face of sudden impact as he sank to one knee. The green car screeched, going into a wild tailspin, cursing a string of obscenities that Optimus hoped Primus wouldn’t really hear before crashing loudly and unceremoniously into an entire row of water-filled attenuators. The din was deafening.

“Oy!” a breathless voice called from ahead, and Optimus looked up as the red car transformed and tumbled towards him in root mode. “Are you alright?!”

It was a lithe mech, with pale gray faceplates and even paler blue optics. He had delicate red and yellow finials, a flapping yellow spoiler, a trim waist, and a mobile mouth twisted in worry. There was a fine sheen of condensation on his red and orange plating from the cool night on his overheated systems. 

He was the most lovely mech that Optimus had ever seen. 

“Hello? Cybertron to unlucky bystander? Can you hear me?” Slim yellow fingers waved in front of Optimus’ battlemask. “Wow, you’re built like a real shiny tank, can’t see a dent on you. Old Blindspot over there is probably in at least three pieces!”

“I’m okay,” Optimus answered belatedly, just as the racer looked like he was about to haul himself up on Optimus’ knee and peer into his optics. “I was just- startled.”

“You don’t say!” the racer grinned at him, palming the curve of his own yellow chestplate in obvious relief. “My spark almost stopped when I saw _you_ , appearing out of nowhere like that. What are you doing here in the middle of a street race?”

“I- ” Optimus tried to tear his gaze away from that expressive face, and it was far harder than it should have been. “I was- lost. I’m sorry. Street race?”

“Blindspot!” the racer called over his shoulder to the groaning pile that had also transformed into a shorter and sturdier mech. “Don’t worry, the guy you clipped is alive! And we both know I was winning and this was the last corner, so what do you say we go to Fast Track and tell him so I can claim my winnings, huh?”

“Frag you!” the green mech hollered back, painfully scraping himself up off the ground. “I could’ve beaten you in the straight!”

“Uh huh,” the red racer said flippantly. “Because you were so close on my aft that I could barely see you in my rearview mirror? Oh no, wait. It was because you were a whole block behind most of the way!”

Optimus’ attention had dropped to the quoted aft before he even realized he was doing it. It looked...gloriously smooth. And sleek. Like the rest of the racer. He yanked his focus up, mortified, but his impropriety didn’t seem to have been noticed. The racer’s attention had abruptly been taken up by three other vehicles approaching from the opposite direction. They transformed as they neared, unfolding into root mode, the largest of them glancing between Optimus, the red racer, and the green mech before ambling their way.

“What in the Pit, Blindspot?” one of the two trailing behind scoffed. “I bet 30 credits on you! It’s our home turf and you crashed?”

“Not like he was keeping up anyway!” the red racer called out smugly before Blindspot could reply, crossing his arms. “Now, Fast Track,” he turned his attention to the large mech who had slowed to a stop in front of them. “I know we technically didn’t finish the race, but I think it’s obvious as to who would have taken it. Can I get my payment or what?”

Fast Track frowned at the racer, then moved his helm to stare at Optimus, who pressed his lips together behind his battlemask and desperately tried to look as bland as possible. If he was recognized…

“Forget it,” Fast Track snapped finally. “The pot was for finishing the race, Hot Rod. You shouldn’t have stopped if you wanted the money.”

Hot Rod - and that was his name, Optimus registered with a curl of delight in his core - made a distressed sound before gesturing at Optimus, still kneeling behind him. “I had to see if he was okay! Where’s your compassion, Fast Track?”

“No compassion here, only rules,” Fast Track said dryly, and then his voice hardened. “Now stop whining and get out of here. This mess- ” he gestured at the busted attenuators with visible disgust, “-is going to take the rest of the night to clear. And if the noise made anyone call the Enforcers, you can bet your pretty little helm that whatever was in the pot tonight will be used to pay them off.”

“But- ” Hot Rod started. Fast Track raised two fingers to his comm unit and, not taking his pointed glare off Hot Rod, said, “Gasket, Sprocket, bring all of the gang and get over here.”

“Alright!” Hot Rod sniffed, backing up immediately. He almost tripped over Optimus’ pede in his haste, and then he casually moved until he could catch one of Optimus’ hands with his own, tugging lightly. “We’ll go. Come on, big guy. You know better than to say you saw anything, right?”

Fast Track’s optics narrowed. “Are you threatening me, Hot Rod? Who’s the civilian anyway?”

“Slag if I know,” Hot Rod sang, and as he stepped away, Optimus was forced to climb to his feet to follow the magnetic clutch of those yellow fingers. As he rose to his full height, Fast Track’s glower switched to him, suspicious and assessing.

“On my count,” Hot Rod whispered to Optimus. “Transform and follow me. Okay? One...”

“What’s your designation?” Fast Track demanded menacingly. The sound of many more engines approaching filled the night from a distance. “Why are you out here alone at this time?”

“Two...”

“You really want me to come over there and _make_ you talk? Don’t you know whose territory this is?”

“Three!” Hot Rod yelped, and Optimus had just enough time to see the shocked consternation on Fast Track’s face before he transformed into his own truck mode and took off at high speed, chasing the bright yellow spoiler already pulling ahead in front of him. 

They made a frantic dash down side streets barely wide enough to admit Optimus’ frame, and took tight turns into alleys over speed bumps that Optimus hadn’t even known his suspension could handle. Through the entire chaotic escape, Hot Rod’s gasping laughter tinkled like music in Optimus’ audials, leading him forward blindly over what felt like one bottomless cliff after another.

By the time the sounds of the chase behind them had faded, they were almost at the border of the city. Hot Rod transformed back into root mode, grinning madly at Optimus before he sprawled uncaringly onto the ground, plating flaring wide to let off heat. As Optimus transformed into root mode as well, he distractedly noted the cabling he could see between the gaps in the red and orange plating, the wires stretched taut as Hot Rod huffed and lolled about to cool himself. 

It was a downright erotic display. 

Warmth, unaccounted for by their wild rush, built in Optimus’ faceplates.

“Well, that was fun,” Hot Rod said cheerfully. “Outran the local thugs and saved you from a beating! The only thing that could be better is if I had gotten _some_ of that payment for fuel. My tank’s almost empty. How about yours?”

Optimus’ tank hadn’t ever gone below 70% in the last few _vorns_. It wasn’t like walking between his quarters to his office repeatedly was a particularly strenuous exertion. Even now, after all that action, his hyper-efficient systems were working at a steady pace. The gauge on his HUD read 81%.

“I’m fine,” he said hurriedly, because it didn’t seem polite to boast about the levels of his tank when someone else was hungry. “But you- if you need fuel, I have some credits I can spare- ”

“Save it,” Hot Rod waved airily. “I don’t take charity. And I didn’t save you because I wanted your money. You sure you’re alright? Will you be able to get home on your own?”

Optimus’ spark sank. Home. The Temple. How long had he been out? Would anyone have noticed by now?

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “But what about you? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Where you’ll be safe?”

Hot Rod winked at him. “I don’t go home with strangers on the first date, either.”

Optimus actually had to reboot his audials and replay the words to make sure that he had heard Hot Rod correctly. “I didn’t mean- ” he blurted, completely flustered. No one had spoken to Optimus like this before. Certainly not after he had become Prime, and not before that he could recall either, in his prim and proper circles as an archivist.

“Here,” Hot Rod smiled. Optimus abruptly felt the tingle of a broadcast on a short-range frequency. “This is my comm code. What’s yours?”

He shouldn’t. He was the Prime. This would without doubt go against every security concern that Ironhide and Prowl had ever had.

Optimus sent a ping back with his own code helplessly.

“I was planning to sightsee in Iacon for a day or two more before I went to meet a friend in Tarn,” Hot Rod shrugged. “But I think I might just head over tonight instead and crash with him if Fast Track’s going to be keeping an optic out for me here. Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right,” he echoed.

“There’ll be another race there too, from what I’ve heard. And, ah,” Hot Rod’s faceplates took on a slight flush. “If you’re still, uh, feeling ‘lost’, you could always come and see. If you want.”

That was not anything that Optimus could promise. Or even consider. He had his duties. He opened his mouth to diplomatically decline, and instead said, “I think I would like that.”

Hot Rod beamed brilliantly at him, and Optimus’ spark sang in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Optimus finished reviewing and signing the datapads with a speed that he hadn’t employed in ages. Carefully placing the last requisitions list onto the top of the pile, he stood from his chair, checking his chronometer as he did so.

From behind him, Ironhide cleared his intake. 

Optimus froze minutely. He’d all but forgotten that his head of security had been standing there. At some point, a significant part of his processing power had gotten stuck between the dreadful worry of how to leave the temple incognito again, making the long drive to Tarn, and the fluttering anticipation of seeing Hot Rod again.

“Going somewhere, Prime?” Ironhide asked levelly. “Yer done real early today, and I know there’s nothing else official on the schedule later.”

Optimus thought, briefly, of telling the truth. But he also knew, with the reports of increasing dissent in Tarn against the Primacy, that there was no way Ironhide would let him go without an armed escort and that-

That wouldn’t do.

“I am trying to achieve a better balance between work and personal time,” he answered instead, opting for a half-truth. “I know that you and Ratchet have been concerned.”

Ironhide softened imperceptibly, though the trace of suspicion in the hard blue optics remained. “Ratchet said he’d checked yer over a few days ago, and that yer were physically fine. Just gotta nip those data ghosts before they wear down the processor, huh?”

Optimus frowned, though the indignance was small and weary. “It seems the longer I am in this position, the more frequently I find my entire command team discussing me behind my back. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Ironhide.”

Ironhide snorted. “It’s our _job_ , Prime. And many of us have known yer since before yer got all fancied up. Nothing new, move along.”

Right. “I’ll be heading back early to my quarters then,” Optimus said, and hoped that his nonchalance would shake his head of security off. No such luck. Ironhide’s optics narrowed.

“Guess I’ll escort ya there. And have yer evening fuel sent over.”

They made their way from the office up the garden path, Ironhide following him inside his habsuite with the ease of long familiarity. Not that there were any hidden corners or doors within his room for an intruder to lurk behind - it was even more spartan than his office, with only a large berth on one side and a small shelf on the other where he’d arranged his personal reading. He hadn’t picked up any of those datapads in a long time.

“So what are you planning to do with yer downtime today?” Ironhide grunted, hovering in the doorway.

Optimus had almost started for his recharge slab in a desperate attempt to get Ironhide to leave; he realized a nanoklik later that it would probably ignite even more of Ironhide’s suspicions. With an awkward spin, he backtracked as naturally as he could, making his way to the shelf. He ran his fingers distractedly across the datapads before plucking out a philosophical exposition. 

“I think I’ll just read,” he said, as neutrally as he could. He made it to the berth and sat himself down, hitting the button to power on the datapad and praying its battery hadn’t gone flat. The screen lit up, dimly and reluctantly. 

Ironhide opened his mouth again but Optimus was saved by the arrival of the drone with his fuel. Per protocol, it ran the sealed, transparent cube under its specialized scanners first once, then twice. Only when the lights blinked green did it roll over and present the cube to him. He took it with a murmured thanks, and the drone chirped and wheeled itself away.

“Alright,” Ironhide eyed the room critically one last time, before his gaze settled deliberately on Optimus. “Then I suppose I’ll leave you to it, Prime. Enjoy yer reading.”

He managed a weak pulse of gratitude in his field. “I will, Ironhide. Thank you.”

He waited until the muffled sound of heavy footsteps had faded away before carefully and quietly rising. He busied himself plugging the datapad in to charge, and then hesitated before subspacing the fuel - if Hot Rod was running low again, then Optimus wanted to be able to offer something in lieu of the credits that the racer refused to take. 

The change of the guards would happen in two breems. With any luck, he’d be in good time.

***

Optimus barely made it in time. 

The coordinates that Hot Rod had pinged him led to the front of a dilapidated stadium, and the way there had been increasingly dodgy the further out from the center of Tarn he went. Only the distant sound of revving engines had assured Optimus that he was on the right path, and as he drove up to the entrance of the stadium, he saw a familiar yellow spoiler twitching, its owner pacing back and forth.

Pale blue optics brightened when Hot Rod caught sight of him. “Optimus!” he called, waving wildly. It sent an answering glow into Optimus’ core. Within the stuffy formality of his interactions with the Senate and various ambassadors, no one had been that enthusiastic to see him in- well. _Ages_. 

Hot Rod was all but bouncing on his pedes, frantically gesturing him over. “We were just about to start! Come on, they won’t let you in without me vouching for you. The folks in Tarn sure run a tighter ship than those guys in Iacon, huh?”

Optimus frowned inwardly. He should have known that gangs would spring up in the seedy underbelly of the cities, and he was aware that a certain level of illegal endeavors was typical in every society. But there was still some dissonance with actually seeing it for himself. He followed Hot Rod past a pair of bulky mechs who eyed him suspiciously, but Hot Rod was chattering so comfortably and tugging Optimus forward with such boundless exuberance that they were let through without further enquiry. 

This was definitely a much more organized event than the race he had stumbled upon in Iacon. The graffitied stands were taken up with distinct groups of spectators, some hollering at the race that was currently taking place. Other racers stood near the tracks, a little way from where they had entered. Hot Rod looked around critically before nudging Optimus towards an unoccupied seat by the stairway. 

“I’m up next! You should get a pretty good view from there. Do you want to make a bet?” he grinned.

Optimus thought of Ironhide and Prowl, pictured their faces if they saw the line on his credit expenditure. “Ah. No,” he fumbled, hoping Hot Rod wouldn’t be offended. “I’m happy just to watch you.”

Hot Rod laughed. “Your loss! But don’t worry - when I collect my winnings, I’ll buy you a drink since you came all this way to show your support. These wheels are going to set the track on fire!” He preened a little - and Optimus reined in the impulse to stare at all the tempting angles of that lithe frame on sheer willpower alone. Hot Rod hopped off the stair, waving merrily as he made his way down to where the other racers were milling about.

It didn’t take long at all. Hot Rod transformed and took his place next to an aerodynamic-looking white-and-gray racer who was already revving up, and they took off to the single short wail of a siren and scattered applause. At the end of the first lap, Hot Rod was lagging behind by a car’s length, the other racer pushing harder out of the bends. But Hot Rod kept up by being faster on the straights, and he took the curves with just a little more finesse. Optimus watched with a frankly-inappropriate amount of anticipation as Hot Rod passed his opponent at the final turn of the final lap, roaring to a rubber-burning finish a half-length ahead.

“I did it!” he cried as he tumbled back into root mode, flashing a victorious sign up to Optimus. Glee and exertion were writ all over his lovely face, and Optimus felt himself smiling in response behind his battlemask and waving back. Hot Rod bounded over to where two other mechs were sitting in the front row - the organizers, presumably. One was smaller and colored a dusty orange and purple, while the other was large and green and blue. Hot Rod wrangled a little with them and the smaller mech snarked something back before a credit stick was inserted into the handheld console set on the lopsided table and a series of numbers were jabbed in. Hot Rod accepted the proffered credit stick with a flourish, laughing about something the larger mech said before turning and sprinting back up the stairs towards Optimus.

“Come on!” he said, breathless with triumph. “I signed up for just that one race today since I told Megs I’d catch him after his shift. He’ll be interested to finally meet you!”

Optimus wasn’t sure whether to feel dread or warmth at that pronouncement. “You’ve...told your friend about me?”

Hot Rod cocked an optic ridge at him, suddenly bashful. “Should I not have? There wasn’t much to tell though,” he admitted. “Just that I nearly drove over a sweet mech who tried to get me fuel and take me home, but Megs can be pretty paranoid about that stuff. He just about yelled my audial off, I can tell you.”

Optimus had _not_ tried to take Hot Rod home, thank you very much, but he could only imagine what this ‘Megs’ must have thought at that version of the story. No shining first impressions on Hot Rod’s friend then. He hesitated. 

He _had_ come here to spend some more time with Hot Rod, but surely sitting around and getting a drink with more strangers was just asking to be discovered. Then again, those who saw him on a more regular basis would surely not be caught around these places, which meant that his anonymity would likely be maintained here, if anywhere…

“Optimus?” Hot Rod had caught his servo again, lightly. His smile was open and blinding. “Shall we? The bar’s not that far.”

The yellow fingers were warm and trusting in his hand. Optimus nodded before he knew what he was doing, letting himself be towed. The casual familiarity of Hot Rod’s behavior, the easy intimacy of his field...all of it was addictive in a way that Optimus hadn’t felt for as long as he could remember.

They ended up in a rather seedy-looking establishment. It wasn’t too crowded, although Optimus barely fit through the door. Hot Rod darted in ahead of him, scanning the various booths and tables before exclaiming in delight and making his way towards the farthest end of the room.

“Megs!” he called cheerily. “Hope you didn’t wait long?”

Optimus followed, an uncharacteristic nervousness rising. He calmed himself. It would be fine. No one had recognized him yet.

He looked up, and piercing red optics caught his.

‘Megs’ rose to his feet. He was large, almost as large as Optimus himself. Gunmetal gray and densely-armored, broad with miner’s markings, he towered over Hot Rod, who had happily scrambled into the seat beside him. He was a ruggedly handsome mech for all the stony sternness on his faceplates, and he stared at Optimus almost-challengingly, his gaze fierce and mistrustful. 

Hot Rod prodded the larger mech with an elbow. “Megs? Stop doing that. You’re going to scare him.”

There was a scornful vent at that but their stare-off was broken, and Optimus was waved ungraciously into the seat opposite them. 

“Hello,” he said, the words feeling clumsy on his vocalizer. “I’m Optimus.”

“Megatron,” the large mech said shortly, sitting back down as well. His voice was deep and gravelly, arresting in some indefinable way. “Hot Rod has told me about you.”

“Ah,” he winced, although it wasn’t visible behind his mask. “I- what you’ve heard- that is- ”

“I’m going to order!” Hot Rod announced, bounding up again. “I won tonight,” he confided in Megatron elatedly. “Drinks on me!” 

The unyielding tightness of Megatron’s mouth softened just a fraction. They both watched him go, clambering up onto a bar stool as he tried to catch the bartender’s attention. Optimus was about to start making some polite small-talk when Megatron spoke.

The hardness in his field was back, the red optics gleaming. “Who are you?” 

It was asked softly, but there was no doubt as to the threat behind it. Optimus dismissed the query from his battle protocols as his processor raced. “I’m from Iacon,” he said truthfully. “I met Hot Rod completely by chance. I was out on a walk, and he was- ”

“I don’t mean that,” Megatron bit out, glaring at him. “Look at you. You’re a warframe, and you’ve been polished to the Pits and back. You’re named after the incumbent Prime. You, Optimus, are completely out of place here, and Hot Rod may not be one to judge, but _I_ will. If you’re thinking of luring him into a few easy dalliances before paying him off or getting rid of him, stand up and walk away right now. Do we understand each other?”

Luring...paying...getting rid of Hot Rod?

“No!” Optimus’ voice was probably a little too loud, but what Megatron was implying was simply intolerable. “I’m not- he’s not- ”

“Yes,” that red gaze burned into him, daring him. “That’s right. He’s not a _disposable_ for your amusement, Optimus. You’re clearly a wealthy mech of some importance, but I can already tell you that Hot Rod doesn’t go for any of that. If you’re planning to use him or break him...I will find you, and I will break _you_. Is that clear?”

“Stop threatening me,” Optimus growled, his patience wearing thin. “I have none of these dishonorable intentions. Do you always think the worst of people you’re meeting for the first time?”

Megatron sat back, massive arms folding unrepentantly across his chest. “Only those who have clearly never experienced the realities of living outside the shining districts of Iacon,” he retorted. “I have yet to meet an upper-class mech who _altruistically_ wanted to find anything in common with the likes of us.” He uttered the last word disdainfully and mockingly, encompassing with a sweeping gaze everyone and everything in the dark dingy bar.

The rudeness and the dismissal burned, because Optimus knew that there was truth to it. Still, something about Megatron was so defiant that it pushed at every one of Optimus’ buttons. He refused to be intimidated. 

“Well, now you’ve met the first,” he snapped back. “So if we could stop arguing over stereotypes and work on actually sharing our opinions, that would probably be a good start towards finding some common ground.”

Hot Rod returned just in time to catch the tail-end of that. “Opinions!” he said excitedly, arms laden with cubes of neon-colored fuel. “Prepare to be impressed, Optimus. Megs has a lot of those, he’s absolutely brilliant.” He put his haul down, and then with a wink at Optimus, pushed one of the large cubes into his hands. A cube also made its way in front of Megatron before Hot Rod settled comfortably back into his seat beside the miner, leaning playfully against him. “Oh, I know! Megs, tell him what you said about not bowing and scraping to a big old temple of expired artifacts!”

Megatron stifled a grumble, but the grudging affection when he looked at Hot Rod was unmistakable. “You know that’s dangerous talk. We could be jailed for that.”

“Well, sure,” Hot Rod took a sip of his own drink, expression turning appreciative as he savored the flavor. “But no one here is going to make a report to the Enforcers or the Prime’s office, right?” He grinned at Optimus, innocent and sweet. “Plus, it’s just an _opinion_. Mechs are allowed to have opinions!”

“I really don’t think- ” Megatron started stubbornly.

“Yes,” Optimus leaned back, and had the satisfaction of seeing Megatron’s startled, narrowed gaze swing back to him. “Mechs are allowed to have opinions. So what’s this you’re tiptoeing around, Megatron? Afraid of a little honesty?”

The fury blazed in Megatron’s optics. “Honesty? It’s a truth that everyone knows, even if no one says it! The Primal Temple and everything it represents is one of the biggest obstacles to upward mobility for those who are not sparked to ‘greatness’. Why should one mech - and the simpering Senate behind him - be a template for what other mechs can or cannot do? Why should a common mech’s function be confined to the frame he found himself in, when reformats and software upgrades could be made far more readily available with all the credits that the Prime and the Senators are sitting on? But nobody in a position of power wants to hear that!”

“Now you’ve gotten him started,” Hot Rod said, nodding at Optimus with undisguised satisfaction. “Megs has tons of ideas about how we could make things better for everyone. Everything he wants seems difficult as slag, though.” He shrugged. “But a mech can dream, right?”

The wistful words caught Optimus, leashed his automatic instinct to bait Megatron further. He looked at them, taking in Hot Rod’s sweet face and his unguarded field, moving to Megatron’s disgruntled scowl. 

It took him another moment to set his ingrained authority and defensiveness aside, but when he did, Optimus was surprised to realize that he honestly felt intrigued. 

“Tell me more,” he said finally, ignoring the flash of surprise in red optics. “Contentious or not, it can’t be a bad thing to want a freer life. I’d like to hear what you think about how to achieve that.”


End file.
